


Nothing Ventured

by Glassdarkly



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-02
Updated: 2008-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One possible explanation of why Spike went from being sweet and resigned about him and Buffy breaking up in <i>Hell's Bells</i> to all "You love me really, you just won't admit it to yourself," in <i>Normal Again</i>, because there's not much in the way of explanation in the show. </p><p>It's also one of those Angel/Spike 'that one time' stories.</p><p>First posted to Spring Spangel on Livejournal in June 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Ventured

**Author's Note:**

> A mildly AU BtVS season 6, between _Hell's Bells_ and _Normal Again_ and AtS season 3, between _Couplet_ and _Loyalty_.

"Angel! Get down here – quick!"

Angel paused with his hand on the half-open door. The urgency in Gunn's tone was depressingly familiar.

Lorne rolled his eyes. "That's what I get for saying how quiet it's gotten since Cordy and Groo took off for Acapulco. Now what?"

Angel winced. He wished Lorne would stop using lame excuses to bring Cordy into the conversation. He'd been trying not to think about her – and especially not about her and Groo.

He thrust the warmed baby's bottle into Lorne's hands. "I'd better go see. Bolt the door behind me and don't let anyone in."

"Angel!" Gunn again, sounding more urgent this time. Even so, Angel waited until he heard the click of the bolts being drawn before he took off down the stairs. He might have lost Cordy to Groo but he wasn't about to lose his son to anyone. 

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to see – another bunch of those crazed vampire cultists, maybe? – but it certainly wasn't what met his eyes when he rounded the turn of the stairs and looked down into the lobby.

Spike was standing in the centre of the open space, slouched in his familiar hipshot pose, hands clasped behind his head, the black wings of his leather duster billowing gently around him. Gunn and Fred, armed with loaded crossbows, faced him across the lobby, one on each side. He was smirking – a tad uncertainly, Angel thought – as he turned to look up at him.

"Took your time, didn't you?” he sneered. “Your flunkey here's been callin' you for bloody ages." 

“Hey, watch who you’re calling a flunkey!” Gunn’s trigger finger twitched.

Angel had stopped dead in his tracks on his first sight of Spike. Now, he leapt over the balustrade to land within touching distance of him.

His first thought was, he's thin – way _too_ thin. His second was, what the fuck is the evil little shit doing here?

"Angel!" Gunn motioned with the crossbow. "You're in my line of fire." 

"S'okay, Charles," Fred said, from across the lobby. "I got him covered."

Instantly, Spike swivelled in her direction. His smirk became a leer and he tilted his head, voice ripe with innuendo.

"You can cover me any time you want, love. I don't mind a bit."

Fred looked bemused – almost charmed - for a moment. Then she frowned, while Gunn growled, "Watch your mouth, blondie," and Angel said, "Shut up, Spike."

Spike's gaze swung back to him. "Oh yeah. Feel right at home now."

Gunn took a pace forward so he was almost at Angel's elbow. "Who _is_ this guy? Can I just shoot him, Angel?"

Angel was about to retort since when did Gunn ask permission to shoot strange vampires when they walked into the Hyperion, but Fred spoke first.

"He said he was family, Charles, remember?" She turned a look of appeal on Angel. "We didn't know whether it was okay to shoot family or not– I mean, not after what happened with Da-"

"He's not family," Angel interrupted her quickly. He turned his best Angelus-like glower on Spike. "Get out of here, Spike, before I kill you myself. I'd do it right now if you weren't already neutered." 

Spike continued to smirk, but his shoulders slumped a little.

"Know about that, do you?"

Angel glowered some more. "Sure I do – from a long time back. Buffy told me."

Spike's brow creased. He chewed the inside of his mouth.

"Buffy tell you anything else, did she?" he asked, in a casual tone. "Also, can I put my hands down now?"

"No!" Angel and Gunn spoke at the same time, and Spike pouted. 

"My arms are bloody aching," he whined.

"You'll live – unfortunately." Angel rolled his eyes. "What more _is_ there for Buffy to tell me, Spike? You got yourself captured by the military. They put a microchip in your head that causes you excruciating pain if you hurt a human. You're defanged – neutered. End of story."

"Yeah?" Gunn relaxed. He let the crossbow dip, while across the lobby Fred did the same. Her nervous expression cleared at once. Instead, she regarded Spike with the avid curiosity usually reserved for a particularly interesting lab specimen.

Spike's smirk had gone. A muscle twitched in his pale cheek and he looked very small suddenly. 

"Yeah well, " he muttered, "that's all _you_ know – arsehole!" 

"Get out!" Angel spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm warning you, Spike -if Buffy's prepared to let you stay in Sunnydale, that's _her_ business, but you're not welcome here."

Spike attempted another pout, but it was half-hearted this time and he ended up looking defensive.

"Oh, that's nice. Bloke comes all this way to see his grandsire – 'cos deny it all you like, we _are_ family - and what does he get? A slap in the face and his marching orders." He raised his scarred eyebrow. "No sodding wonder you have to pay people to be friends with you."

"At least I _have_ friends." Angel clenched his fists. "The last time we met, _you_ paid an insane paedophile vampire to run me through with red-hot pokers – joined in yourself, as I recall. Did you really expect me to welcome you with open arms?"

Spike tilted his head again. "Well – yeah. What're a few red-hot pokers between family? I mean-" and now the smirk was back, "-s'hardly as bad as some of the stuff you did to _me_ back in the day."

 _Damn him!_ At Spike's words, Angel was instantly aware of Gunn looking at him sidelong and of Fred's eyes growing round. 

Spike looked at one human, then the other. His smirk became positively gleeful.

"They don't know, do they?" At once, he began to babble, "Well, there was this one time, see, not long after I was turned, when Angelus here hung me up by the bollocks from this big, cut-glass chandelier–"

Fred's eyes were already as big as saucers. There was only one thing for it.

Angel reached out and grabbed Spike's arm by the elbow. He began to drag him in the direction of the stairs. "One hour, Spike. That's all the time I'm gonna waste on you, so you'd better make it good."

For a moment, Spike resisted him, but then he laughed and allowed himself to be dragged.

"All right, all right. Know you can't wait to get me all to yourself, but give a bloke a chance to catch his breath."

"You don't need to breathe." Angel propelled Spike up the stairs, trying to ignore the two humans' astonished faces.

*

At the second floor landing, Angel hesitated. He couldn't take Spike to his suite, and the only other furnished room was Fred's. In the end, he carried on to the third floor and down a gloomy corridor lined with discarded pieces of broken furniture to the unused part of the hotel.

"Where're we goin'?" Spike had followed him without protest so far, but now he grabbed a doorframe in passing, planted his feet stubbornly and hauled back on Angel's grip. "You draggin' me off somewhere to dust me on the quiet, like?"

"No, of course not." Angel pulled him again, but Spike refused to budge. 

"No 'no of course not' a bloody 'bout it, mate. Why should I believe you?"

Angel rolled his eyes. "Because _you're_ the one who came to me wanting to talk, Spike, remember? That means, we do it on my terms – and I don't want you anywhere near my friends."

He tugged again, but Spike still resisted him.

"Afraid I'll infect them with my horrible, evil soullessness, are you?" 

Angel stopped tugging, but he'd heard the tell-tale hint of vulnerability in Spike's voice – the one that had always gotten Angelus hard because it reminded him how easy Spike was to hurt. 

Looking straight into Spike's hot blue eyes, he said, "Something like that, William – yeah."

Spike met his gaze for a long moment, but then his shoulders slumped again and he looked down.

"Fair enough," and he let go of the doorframe and allowed Angel to drag him the final few paces into one of the still half-habitable rooms.

Once they were inside and the door shut behind them, Angel pushed Spike away from him, sending him staggering across the room. He barely prevented himself from falling by grabbing hold of the headboard of the big, brass bedstead.

When he turned on Angel, like a wolf at bay, lips pulled back from his fangs in a snarl, Angel felt his own vampire face emerge, while a dark, unholy joy uncoiled like a snake in the pit of his belly.

There was a long, frozen moment while they bristled at each other. Then, Spike's fury seemed to sputter and die. His features reverted to human and he slumped down onto the bed. Perching disconsolately on the bare, lumpy mattress, he reached into his duster pockets and drew out a battered pack of smokes.

Angel allowed his own face to change back, feeling oddly let down. He considered telling Spike he wasn't allowed to smoke inside the building, but then thought better of it. Anything that concealed Connor's scent from Spike could only be a good thing.

"Want one?" Spike held the open pack of cigarettes towards him, but Angel shook his head. He folded his arms again and leaned against the door.

"Suit yourself." Spike coaxed a flame from his lighter on his second attempt and lit his cigarette. He inhaled, shutting his eyes as he did so, and exhaled again with a sigh. 

What light there was in the room came dimly through slatted blinds, which cast stark black shadows across Spike's white face. Angel thought again how thin he looked, the flared cheekbones sharp as blades. 

"You look like hell," Angel said, at last, when it seemed that Spike meant to finish his cigarette in silence.

Spike laughed a sneering laugh. "Fitting, I s'pose." He took another deep drag and regarded Angel through blue clouds of hanging smoke. "You, on the other hand, look kind of – beefed up. Been puttin' on weight, have you, Peaches?"

"What?" Angel stood up straight. "No." He scowled. "Just tell me why you're here, Spike? And don't call me Peaches." 

"Well, you don't call me William," Spike retorted. He looked down at his hands. "As for why I'm here – can't a bloke pay a visit to his sire without having a reason?"

"No." Angel couldn't help noticing that Spike's nails with their chipped black polish were bitten to the quick. "For one, I'm not your sire. Dru is. For another, you hate me."

"Oh yeah." Spike's voice was dull. "Forgot." He looked up, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Wanted some company, that's all – someone who knows what it's like."

Angel blinked. "What what's like?"

Spike opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated. He took another drag on his cigarette, then dropped the flaming butt on the bare floorboards and ground it out in a shower of sparks.

"Never mind," he muttered. "S'just I've been dumped, that's all. Again."

"Huh?" Angel didn't know whether to laugh at this admission, or to be outraged at Spike's suggestion that he would know how it felt. "I didn't know you and Dru had gotten back together."

Spike glanced up at him, looking startled. Again, he appeared on the verge of saying something only to think better of it. "Yeah well," he muttered. "Don't know much, do you?"

"So it seems." Angel frowned. Why hadn't Buffy told him Dru was back in town? Surely she must have realised he'd want to know? 

He stuck his hands in his pants pockets. "Still don't see why you've come knocking on _my_ door."

Spike's shoulders slumped even further. He stared down at his hands.

"Just wanted some sirely – all right, grandsirely – advice, that's all." He looked up at Angel again, a wounded expression on his face. "How did you go on living? How did you get over – that?" 

"Over what? Like I told you before back in Sunnydale, Spike, Dru's fickle. She's done this to you – what, three times now? Get a clue. She's gonna keep on doing it." Angel shook his head, exasperated. "You really want my advice? Forget her. Find someone else - jump right back in the saddle."

"Tried that," Spike said, dully. "Didn't work. Made it worse, actually. Mind you –" he opened the pack of cigarettes again, and took out another –"the occasion could've had something to do with it. Nothing puts a damper on things like an abandoned bride on her wedding day."

"Say what now?" Angel went over to the bed and sat down next to Spike and this time, when Spike offered him a cigarette, he took it, bending his head to the lighter flame. When he inhaled, the nicotine hit made his head spin. He hadn't smoked in a while.

"Xander and Anya," Spike said, in an impatient voice, as if Angel should have just known. "Idiot kid got cold feet. Left her standing at the altar, and no one's seen him since."

" _You_ were invited to Xander and Anya's wedding?" Angel couldn't quite believe his ears. He felt quite indignant. They hadn't invited _him_.

"Yeah," Spike said, gloomily. "Wish I hadn't been now, even though I left before the end. Willow told me what happened later. Sounded bloody awful."

"You – talk to Willow? Since when?"

As he spoke, Angel eyed Spike sidelong. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask him who he was and what he'd done with the real Spike, because the sympathy he'd expressed for Anya had almost sounded genuine.

But of course, it couldn't be. Spike was soulless. He didn't do sympathy. 

Spike hadn't noticed his reaction. "Dunno - a while. Anyway, that was the last straw. Already felt miserable as shit and –" he indicated Angel with his cigarette -"that's when I thought of you."

"Gee, thanks." 

They smoked together in silence for a while longer. Then Spike said, "So –you think I should forget about her, do you? Just like that? Not try and get her back – not try and make her understand how I really feel about her?" 

He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor again, and leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes boring into Angel's. "Even though she's the most amazing woman in the world and I worship the ground she walks on?"

The vehemence in his tone startled Angel. He'd forgotten about William the bloody awful poet, but it seemed he was still in there somewhere.

"Well –" he floundered. "Not much point, I guess, if she's not interested?"

"That's the thing –" Spike sighed. "I'm not so sure she isn't. 'Course, she _says_ so, but everyone knows women don't always mean what they say."

"They don't?" 

Angel frowned, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, because he'd just made himself look stupid. Certainly Spike seemed to think so, because he was smirking again, though in a rather half-hearted way.

Spike's words had touched a sore point, though. Now and again – make that a whole bunch of times every single day - since Cordy and Groo had left, Angel had caught himself thinking about Groo, dressed like him, courtesy of a Cordy personal makeover - even wearing his clothes. 

He couldn't help thinking that Cordy had been trying to tell him something by doing that.

It was very puzzling. 

"Has she met someone else?" he asked.

Spike was staring off into the distance. "Has who?"

Angel eyed him sidelong again. "Dru, of course. Who did you think I meant?" 

"Oh - right. Dru." Spike blinked slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched in a sort of half-smirk. "Don't think so. Haven't seen anyone sniffin' round her yet."

"Well then, maybe you just gave up too soon?" Angel looked in vain for somewhere to stub out the cigarette, but in the end he dropped it on the floor and trod it out, as Spike had. "Maybe she's trying to tell you something without actually saying it – maybe she doesn’t even realise it herself - and you're just too dumb to understand her?" 

Again, he thought of Groo dressed in his clothes "You know what, Spike, I've changed my mind. You _should_ try again, and keep trying, even if she acts like she's not interested in you." 

Spike blinked in surprise.

"Bit of a one-eighty there, mate. Nice going. What's brought that on, then?"

Angel hardly heard him. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Cordy had practically drooled over Groo, post-makeover, while treating _him_ like he was invisible. What if it had been some kind of weird transference thing and not what it seemed at all? 

How was he supposed to know?

He frowned. "Ten to one, if she _does_ find someone else, they'll end up looking just like you." 

It was only when he saw Spike's smirk become an open grin that he realised how much his voice had risen.

"My, my," Spike sneered. "What's eating _you_?"

He leaned in close suddenly, and before Angel could stop him, vamped out and flared his nostrils, scenting him. 

"Stop that!" Angel pushed him away, but it was too late. Spike blinked yellow eyes full of savage amusement.

"Why the fuck do you smell of babies?" He leered. "You taken to snackin' on 'em on the QT, mate, whenever you get peckish? Your little human pals know about it?"

"What? No!" Angel pushed him again, but this time Spike grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him close, still sniffing at him. 

"Curiouser and curiouser." His grin reminded Angel of a malevolent Cheshire cat. "You smell of baby milk – and of _her_ – Cordelia. _Very_ interesting. Where _is_ dear old Queen C anyway? Didn't see her downstairs with the others."

He made to stand up. "Can't leave without saying hello, can I, seein' as we know each other so well."

"Sit down!"

Angel made a grab for the back of Spike's duster. Gathering the soft, buttery leather in his fist, he twisted it, and a moment later Spike was face down on the bed with Angel on top of him.

Spike struggled. "Lemme go, you pillock!"

"Shut up!" Angel pulled the sleeves of the duster half way down Spike's arms, trapping them behind him. He used his free hand to pin Spike's head down at the neck. "I'm warning you, Spike."

Spike struggled a moment longer, then to Angel's surprise, he went limp. His face, pressed into the mattress, was human again. He looked oddly subdued.

"All right," he muttered. "All right."

Angel relaxed his grip a little. It was weird how Spike seemed more un-Spikelike with every moment that passed. At the same time, he was becoming uncomfortably aware of how little some things had changed, as his groin pressed into a familiar denim-covered butt. 

_Damn!_ Angel closed his eyes, willing his body not to react, but it was too late. Under him, Spike tensed.

"Well, at least _something's_ pleased to see me," he said, though he sounded more resigned than smug. 

"I said, shut up!" Angel told himself he should let go – stand up – tell the little bastard to get out once and for all- but his cock had other ideas, almost as if Spike's words had imbued it with a life of its own.

No, his cock didn't want Spike to go at all. In fact, it was very comfortable right where it was, wedged between those two firm cheeks, except that it was growing increasingly resentful of the layers of cloth separating them from it.

Angel let go of Spike's neck. His hand was actually grasping the waistband of Spike's jeans, ready to rip them right off him, when Spike said, muffled by the mattress, 

"Wanna fuck, then?" 

His words seemed to touch some sensitive spot just behind Angel's balls, and he gasped, even while he heard his own voice saying, "What? No!" 

A moment later, he was grinding himself against Spike's ass, while impatient fingers fumbled with his belt buckle.

"I'll take that no as a yes, then?" Spike's voice had a cynical edge to it. "If I had a penny for every time that's happened to me lately, I'd be a sodding millionaire."

"Don't have a clue what you're talking about." Angel had Spike's belt undone. He fumbled lower – damn button flies!- then tugged hard, fabric ripping at the seams under his frantic fingers. A moment later, to the accompaniment of Spike's outraged swearing, those firm white asscheeks were right under Angel's nose. Angel bit his lip when he saw them. Then – he couldn't help himself – he smacked one hard. 

Spike yelped. "Oww!" His body bucked, trying to escape again, but with his arms still trapped in the duster sleeves, Angel held him down easily. He smacked him again, on the other cheek this time – they looked better if they matched – and Spike groaned and hissed through his teeth. 

Tiny bolts of electricity seemed to be zinging around inside Angel's brain. He felt quite light-headed. All he could think of was that he was about to fuck Spike and he hadn't the least idea how it had happened.

"This is insane," he heard himself say.

"Tell me about it," Spike's voice, beneath him, was still muffled by the mattress, but his resigned tone was unmistakeable and it gave Angel pause.

He sat up, shifting uncomfortably as his cock strained against the crotch of his pants. Beneath him, Spike groaned again.

Angel leaned down to look at Spike's face. "You _sure_ you wanna do this, Spike?" 

Spike considered the question for a moment. Then he said, "Yeah – but not like this." He bucked his body again and this time Angel let him go. "Wanna see your face – look you in the eye – make sure you know it's me you're shagging."

Abruptly, he sat up and began to unlace his boots, toeing them off his bare feet. He took off his duster and threw it onto a nearby armchair, then stood up to shimmy out of his ruined jeans, looking oddly childlike wearing only his t-shirt and with his pale cock pointing skyward. 

Angel couldn't help staring at it, overcome by a bizarre feeling of nostalgia. It had been a long time – too long. He stared, too, appalled, as Spike's wiry torso emerged from under his clothing. He looked like he was wasting away, pale skin a paper-thin layer over the cage of muscle and bone. He was beautiful still but – wrong somehow - broken.

Questions sprang to Angel's lips but he bit them back – Spike wasn't his problem, and he couldn't afford to let him become his problem. 

"Here." Spike had been fumbling in his duster pockets. He tossed Angel a small bottle of lube – already opened, Angel noticed. "Use this."

Then he lay down on his back on the bed.

"Spike –" Angel could feel his erection wilting. This was all _too_ weird. But then Spike rolled his eyes and smirked at him.

"Come and get it, big boy. This is a one time offer only." So saying, he grabbed hold of the brass bedstead with both hands, bent his knees and let his legs flop wantonly apart.

When Angel still didn't move, he rolled his eyes again. "Bloody get on with it, Angel. I haven't got all fucking day."

Despite his misgivings, Angel's feet propelled him across the room of their own accord. The lumpy mattress depressed beneath his knee. He put one hand on Spike's leg and at once a long, convulsive shiver went through Spike's whole body. He closed his eyes, threw back his head and moaned. 

"Christ!" Angel wondered, as so often, why the word didn't burn his mouth. He kept his eyes on Spike's face as he opened his pants and slicked himself up, and then used the remainder of the lube to slick Spike, fingers worming into cool, silky tightness that he remembered all too well. 

"Ready?" Angel folded Spike's body into a tight, taut bow, scooped his legs up and set his knees on his shoulders. 

At the word, Spike's eyes flew open. "Yeah. Ready as I'll ever be."

In spite of that, he swore out loud when Angel began to nudge his way into him. Angel stopped, giving him time to breathe through the discomfort before pushing forward again.

"Bloody hell!" Spike bit his lip until it bled. "Forgotten what _that_ felt like."

"You haven't –" Angel began, only for Spike's eyes to hood over.

"'Course not," he said. "You're my sire, Angelus. Only bloke who gets to tap my arse is you."

Angel didn't believe him. He thought of telling Spike he wasn't Angelus – or not exactly - but thought was becoming difficult. He was encased in tight, sweet flesh that sucked him greedily into itself, and it was like coming home. Now, all he needed was friction. 

The pupils of Spike's eyes expanded in the gloom.

"What're you waiting for?" he hissed. "Bloody hurry up, you bastard. Fuck me – and don't you fucking dare look away."

Angel wanted to say _I won't_ , but he was beyond words now. There was nothing but slick flesh and sweat and smooth silky skin – Spike's voice rising and falling – swear words that were really endearments – and friction – delicious, blood-tinged friction.

When Angel came, his head seemed to explode – like fireworks going off inside his brain – but even so, he remembered to put his hand over Spike's, where Spike was frantically jerking himself off, and help him reach his own shuddering climax.

Afterwards, he prised Spike's other hand from its death grip on the bedstead and held it clasped in his for a long, peaceful moment. There was a mark around the wrist, he noticed, like a chafe-mark from a metal cuff. 

"Dru been playing rough, huh?" Angel raised the hand to his mouth and ran his tongue over the mark, tasting salt and sweat, and Spike. No trace of Dru, but then, if they'd been apart for a while, that wasn't so surprising. 

Spike snatched his hand back. "Gave as good as I got." 

"Glad to hear it." Angel frowned. "And what was all that crap about me not looking away from you? Where did that come from?"

Spike sat up suddenly, expelling Angel's cock from his body in a cool, sticky rush.

"Nothing," he said, sulkily. "S'just that sometimes – when I'm with _her_ – back when I _was_ with her, that is – when we were shagging, could always tell when she was thinking about you – bitch!"

Angel sighed. He told himself he shouldn't feel guilty - for other things to do with Dru, yes, but not this. But he felt guilty anyway. It was sort of his default setting.

"It's not her fault," he said. "She can't help it. I made her that way."

Spike had stood up. A thin trickle of blood laced the white skin of his inner thigh. Angel stared at it. He resisted licking his lips.

"Yeah," Spike conceded. "S'pose you did at that."

He tore a dustsheet off an old, broken chair, and used it to wipe his ass clean. Angel averted his eyes, embarrassed. After a moment, however, he turned back to watch. After all, it was a very fine ass and he might never see it again.

Spike was watching him over his shoulder, the expression on his face as naked as his body, but raw, like an open wound.

"So you think I _should_ try and get her back?" he asked again, sounding very uncertain suddenly. "Try and try, until she sees sense? Not take no for an answer?"

"Honestly?" Angel sat up in turn. He wiped his hand, sticky with Spike's jizz, on the mattress and fumbled his pants closed. He thought of Dru – all black hair and blue eyes and slender limbs, a creature of fog and whimsy. Who knew how she'd react to anything? 

"Play it by ear, Spike. Go with your instinct, and who knows? Maybe she'll come around, and – " he floundered again, thinking of Cordy. Why had he just given up like that? Why the hell hadn't he fought for her? "And nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Well, aren't _you_ full of boring truisms all of a sudden." He smirked. "Bloody hell, Angelus, talk about housebroken. Cordelia's got you all domesticated."

"Don't talk about her," Angel growled, "and I am _not_ domesticated" But Spike only smirked some more and bent to pick up his discarded jeans.

It occurred to Angel belatedly that telling an evil soulless vampire to go with its instinct was not maybe the wisest thing he'd ever done, but Spike already looked happier, so he kept his mouth shut. Time to get him out of here before he started asking questions again.

Spike was staring at his jeans. Then he swore and dropped them.

"Sodding things are ruined," he growled. "Why couldn't you just bloody control yourself, you big ape?"

"Sorry." The word slipped out before Angel could stop it. Now he was apologising to Spike! Things were getting more surreal by the moment. "I'll get you some pants to wear." 

He stood up and brushed himself down. There was a damp patch on his pants leg, but otherwise he didn't look too bad. "Then you're out of here. In the meantime, don't leave this room." 

Spike gave him a sulky two fingers. "Can't, can I? Not like this."

As Angel slipped from the room, Spike lit yet another cigarette.

*

Angel put his ear to the door of his suite. He could hear the fast drub of Connor's heartbeat, like a tiny drum accompanying Lorne's soft singing. All seemed peaceful.

He tapped on the door.

"Lorne? It's me. Open up."

A moment later, there was the sound of the deadbolt being drawn, then the second bolt and the third one, and the chain going up, and then the key turning in the lock. Lorne opened the door the length the chain would permit. Red eyes peered out at Angel suspiciously.

"Has he gone?"

"Who? No. He's going soon, though. Let me in."

Lorne's gaze darted left, then right. Satisfied Angel was alone, he undid the chain and threw the door wide open.

Angel slid past him and into the room. He crossed to Connor's bassinet and stood looking down at him, while the bolts on the door shot home again.

"Fredikins told me it's another family visit." Lorne sounded rattled. " _Please_ tell me there won't be any more explosions."

Angel set his finger to Connor's soft, baby cheek, the familiar feeling of awe overwhelming him that this was his. He'd helped make this.

However, the thought was tinged with unease this time, because of course no matter how he might want to deny it, the same could be said of Spike. 

No, best not to think about that. 

Bending down, he kissed the sleeping baby very gently. Then, he crossed to the closet and began to look through his clothes.

"Angel -honeybunch." Lorne had come right up behind him unheard. "This does _not_ look good. Whenever you _com-shuk_ with a family member bad stuff happens. It's a thing."

Angel paused with his hand on a pair of Armani slacks. He frowned. _Way_ to good for Spike and anyway, not his style.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, carefully not looking at Lorne.

"Oh, I think you do." He could almost hear Lorne rolling his eyes. "You whisk Angel Junior – the _other_ Angel Junior, who Fred tells me is _hot, hot, hot_ by the way – off to parts unknown, and then you come back here looking for clean pants and smelling of cigarettes. I don't know about you, cream puff, but to me, that says there's been a certain amount of _com-shukking_ involved."

Angel kept his back to him. Leather pants? No, they'd cost him a small fortune and besides, with how skinny Spike had gotten, he'd drown in them.

"Even if there was," he said, "and I'm not saying there _was_ , it doesn't matter. He's leaving and he's not coming back."

He could feel Lorne's eyes on his face, but he kept not looking at him, and at last, Lorne threw up his hands in disgust.

"Okay, I hope you're right, but Angel – sugarpuff –honeybunch -you should know better. These things have a way of coming back to bite people in the ass- usually your ass."

"True." Angel sighed. It didn't look like there was anything in his closet that was going to fit Spike. He was about to give up when stuffed right at the back, he found a pair of blue jeans.

He stared at them, puzzled. They didn't look like his. When he examined them more closely, however, he realised they were Wesley's. They must have gotten dirty on some mission, been mixed up with his laundry and then forgotten. They'd do at a pinch, and Wes obviously hadn't missed them, what with his hardly being around these days.

Angel wished he were here. He could have done with advice that wasn't accompanied by endearments that made him feel fat.

He turned to go, very aware still of Lorne standing by Connor's crib, arms folded, glaring at him in open disapproval. 

"Okay, okay!" Angel turned back, hands up in surrender. "I get the message – I do. _Com-shukking_ with family is bad. I won't do it again and once he's out of here I'll have Wes disinvite him. Happy now?"

Lorne blinked. "Hey, I didn't say anything." Then, "Well okay, fine," he conceded. "And sorry if I come over a tad on edge. It's been a trying few weeks, is all."

"I get that." Angel tried to smile reassuringly at him. "In any case, at least you needn't worry about Spike getting pregnant."

He laughed, but Lorne didn't join him. Instead, he looked worried. 

"You _sure_ about that, Angelcakes, cuz stranger things have happened?"

"I'm sure." Angel laughed again, wincing inwardly at the waver of uncertainty he heard in his voice. "In any case," he went on hurriedly, "believe it or not, his visit's helped me with something that's been bothering me. I've been thinking about a decision I made. I think now maybe it was the wrong one."

Lorne's eyes glittered with curiosity. He pursed his lips. "This wouldn't have anything to do with conceding the field of love like a total loser to a certain Pylean champion without even putting up a fight, would it?"

Angel hunched his shoulders, embarrassed. "It may do."

Lorne beamed from ear to ear. " _Kyrumption_ ," he said. "I knew you two couldn't fight it. And best of all, she's not a blood-relative. Just you wait, munchkin, when Cordy comes back, things’ll work out between you, you’ll see.”

“Yeah – right.” 

Angel began to undo the bolts again, eager to get away before Lorne's sunny optimism could depress him further.

*

When Angel entered the third floor room, there was no sign of Spike. He swore under his breath and turned on his heel, already imagining him strolling into the Hyperion kitchen stark naked to help himself to blood from the fridge, careless of who saw him.

"Out here." It was Spike's voice, coming from the balcony. "Afraid I'd run off without saying goodbye, were you?"

Angel turned back. Spike was peering at him round the open door, cigarette in his hand, blond hair all tousled in the fume-filled breeze, irritating smirk on his face. 

"Something like that," Angel admitted. In his instant panic, he hadn't even noticed how noisy the room had become with the sound of traffic.

Feeling foolish - not for the first time this evening - he threw Wes's jeans onto the bed and walked over to join Spike, finding that in one respect at least, his fears were realised. Spike _was_ stark naked, his pale body a chiaroscuro of planes and angles in the harsh, unforgiving glare of the streetlights. 

He looked very vulnerable somehow, and for the briefest of moments, Angel thought of asking him to stay. Then he shook his head and stuck his hands in his pants pockets. Hadn't he been dumb enough already this evening? No need to make it worse. 

"Couldn't you at least put your coat on?"

Spike shrugged. He leaned his elbows on the balcony rail and stuck his cigarette in his mouth.

"Couldn't be arsed," he said, gloomily. 

Angel wished he wouldn't talk about asses, especially considering his current stance was making his own kind of prominent. Angel could still see the faint outline of handprints, one on either cheek, and for a moment he was pleased that he'd gotten them so symmetrical.

He frowned to himself. This was no good. He really had to get Spike out of here and back to Sunnydale, where the only person he could hurt was himself. He opened his mouth to say he'd brought the clean pants, but Spike got in first.

"S'pose I should at least say you haven't lost your touch. S'only polite, innit?" He looked over his shoulder at Angel and smiled a more genuine smile. "Was good – and you're not fat – well, at least, only a bit."

"Oh." Angel hunched his shoulders and dug his hands further into his pockets. "You too, and likewise." He frowned. "We're not doing it again, though."

"Too bloody right we're not." Spike turned back to his contemplation of the passing traffic. He took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped it, still burning, into the courtyard garden below.

"Hey –" Angel began, but Spike interrupted him again.

"God, I hate this sodding place. Dunno how you stick it. Smells like a fucking toilet."

"What? Los Angeles?" Angel followed the direction of Spike's jaded gaze, trying to see what he saw, but to him, it just looked like home. "It's not so bad when you get used to it."

"Yeah?" Spike threw him a disbelieving look. "You're welcome to it, mate. Place was okay back in the twenties, now it's a dump." He straightened. "Wouldn't stay here unless there was a spell on me to stop me from leavin.' No way I'm ever coming back again – not _this_ side of the grave."

Angel supposed that at least meant he wouldn't have to bother disinviting him. Speaking of which -

"Whatever," he said. "If you hate it so much, just go – and don't let the door hit you on the way out."

Spike threw him a hateful look that quickly became one of injured false innocence.

"No need to take that attitude, _Peaches_. Would've been long gone if you weren't such a fucking Neanderthal."

He pushed past Angel back into the room, cool bare skin brushing against his fingertips in passing. Angel watched his body disappear -like donning armour -under its customary black layers, with a final, guilty pang of regret. Spike looked so much better naked. 

Spike stuck his cigarettes back in his duster pocket. "I'll be off, then. And ta very much, mate. Wasn't such bad advice, considering the source." He smirked and tilted his head. "Should try it yourself, maybe- nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that trite old bollocks?"

"Shut up, Spike. " Angel scowled at him. Whatever he decided to do about Cordy and Groo – and he was leaning more and more towards following his own advice all the time -it was none of Spike's damn business.

Spike's smirk ratcheted up a notch.

"Touch-y!" he sneered. "Was only tryin' to be helpful." 

"Yeah, right." Angel made a shooing motion towards the door. "Hope it works out for you with Dru." 

Even as the words left his mouth, Angel knew he shouldn't be hoping for any such thing. Spike and Dru brought out the worst in each other and innocent people were the ones who would suffer as a result. Maybe it was time he took _all_ his family responsibilities more seriously?

"If it does," he said, "let me know. I'll come visit you both."

Spike's face darkened at once. "Yeah, right. S'pose you think you'll kill two birds with one stone. God, Angel, I wouldn't have a soul in a million years if that's what it does to you."

Angel hadn't thought he'd been so transparent. "What're you getting at now?" 

"You murdering your own family. First Darla, then me and Dru. You're a sick bastard, Angelus, like always."

He turned and walked from the room, stiff-backed with anger. Angel shadowed him along the corridor, half-saddened and half-relieved that Spike was back to hating him again. 

"Yeah well, don't think you have to worry about getting a soul, Spike. You couldn't even if you tried."

Spike gave him the two fingers. "You'd be surprised what I can do when I set my mind to it." He turned and glared at Angel over his shoulder, eyes sparking gold. "Gonna get her back, you'll see, and when I do, I'll make her forget you if it sodding well kills me."

They walked the rest of the way to the deserted lobby in angry silence. Once they reached it, Spike made straight for the door and out of it without once looking back. Then he was gone.

Angel watched the door swinging violently backwards and forwards on its hinges from the force of Spike's shove. It seemed he'd taken that not letting the door hit him on the way out remark to heart. After a moment, there was the sound of a motorbike engine.

"Good luck with that, William," Angel said, softly. "You'll need it."

In fact, he thought, given what they were up against, they both would, but like the man said, nothing ventured, nothing gained.


End file.
